


Insha Allah

by LucyLovecraft



Category: Robin of Sherwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyLovecraft/pseuds/LucyLovecraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nasir is a man of few words but many thoughts.</p>
<p>(I wrote this ages ago, and now have some concerns that it may smack of cultural appropriation and/or exoticisation. Apologies if this is the case.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I die of love for him, perfect in every way,

Lost in the strains of wafting music.

My eyes are fixed upon his delightful body

And I do not wonder at his beauty.

His waist is a sapling, his face a moon,

And loveliness rolls off his rosy cheek

I die of love for you, but keep this secret:

The tie that binds us is an unbreakable rope.

How much time did your creation take, O angel?

So what! All I want is to sing your praises.

_ \- Abu Nuwas (750–810) _

 

I, who have travelled far on this earth by the grace of Allah, have seen many strange things and met many kinds of men. I have heard the _djinn_ of the desert and seen the spirits of these pagan woods. And I know that Robin of Huntingdon is not Robin of Loxley, and for this among many other things I am grateful. Not that I would wish to diminish the memory of that beloved leader who came before; Robin of Loxley saved me from Simon de Belleme, who was an infidel sorcerer with whom we _hashshashin_ had sided against Salah al-Din. Salah al-Din I hated as a Sunni heretic, but it was de Belleme who betrayed us and enslaved me. When Loxley killed him, I was freed, and for that I am eternally indebted to him, and I pray that his deserving soul has found peace in Paradise. But Robin of Huntingdon is a nobleman’s son, educated and thoughtful. He is the first man for many months with whom I can speak freely. He has been the torment and salvation of my soul.

When I was one of the _hashshashin_ , I would have slain any man who insinuated that I might one day long for the pale body of a Christian from far, cold lands. But since then I have seen more and learned more than they ever taught me in my _madrasah_ as a youth. I still pray to Allah as my Christian friends still pray to their God, and we occasionally compare our worship. Christians do not pray five times a day, nor do they commit their holy book to memory, as many Muslims do. They sat in awe to hear me recite those eternal words:

_ “ _ _ In the Name of Allah, the Merciful Benefactor, The Merciful Redeemer: Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds, The Beneficent, the Merciful. Owner of the Day of Judgment, Thee alone we worship; Thee alone we ask for help. Show us the straight path, the path of those whom Thou hast favoured, not the path of those who earn Thy anger or that of those who go astray”. _

They declared it strange yet beautiful, and I remembered thinking the same thing when I first heard their priests chant the words of their faith, and I was content.

So I am still a man of the faith, but I am no longer one of the _hashshashin_. I will not kill in the name of Allah, for I feel now that it cannot be by the will of the All-Merciful that war should ravage the Holy Land. I hear of the peace and prosperity which Salah al-Din has wrought, and I am grateful that I did not kill him. I judge him now to be a good and holy man, as I judge Robin to be a good and holy man. My father named me “Nasir”, which means “helper”, and so I shall help him that I love. My past is past, Robin and this land of England are my present, and my future shall be as Allah wills it. 

 

In these barbaric northern wildernesses they cannot imagine the majesty and beauty of Baghdad, Córdoba, or Damascus. In my dreams I still feel the warm sun on my face and the calls of the _imams_ , the chatter of the marketplaces filled with travellers from far and wide, come to see the splendour of the cities. The women and men there dress in bright clothes and sing beautiful songs. There, Muslim, Christian, and Jew live side by side in peace, for the followers of the Prophet, praise be upon him, do not persecute other folk of the Book. In such cities there are centres of learning of the like which none of my friends here could dream, where scrolls containing all the wisdom of the world lie stored away like so many treasures.

But who among my friends here has read Aristotle? Who could read the words of Allah, greatest and most merciful, even if His words were put down in their rough language before them? None but Robin of Huntingdon. With him, alone of these foreigners whom I love as family, can I speak of philosophy, of theology, or the histories of empires. 

I should praise them all, though, for I love them all. If Allah wills it, I may spend the rest of my life with these kind people, who accept me as their own though my ways are strange to them. I see them and am proud to have earned their respect. There is Little John, brave and tall, Will Scarlet, fierce as a lion, Much, simple and true, and there is Tuck, as gracious as his girth. There is Marion, as gentle as Fatima, daughter of the Prophet, praise be upon him. I see all of them, and I am grateful.

But most of all, I praise Allah when I see Robin of Huntingdon, who moves like a gazelle through his green kingdom and whose heart is as great as the sea. And by Alllah, I love him. When I see him go, my chest aches and I wish to cry as the faithful did in exile from Mecca. When he returns, his eyes as blue as the fountains of Paradise, my heart praises Allah for bringing him back to me.

 

But there, I am far from home. At home, I was considered an eloquent man, whose words were sweet and well-chosen. It is not so in this land: I do not have mastery of their tongue, though I speak it well enough. I cannot say what I feel and think. And educated though he is, if I were to tell Robin that I find his eyes to be like those eternal fountains of Allah in Paradise, he would not understand. Even if our souls could speak, abandoning the shackles of our language, his spirit would shy away from mine: he loves Marion too well. And truly, she is worthy of him: brave in battle and as loving as Fatima, the shining one.

But Allah forgive me, I see him look at me sometimes, and I pray that I am not mad with love, that I do not hallucinate what I so hope to see in his eyes. Sometimes I feel a reassuring and friendly touch upon my shoulder, and every sense in my body quickens to feel the touch of his hand, and I hope that I do not imagine the way that hand lingers and lengthens the contact. And sometimes, when he says my name, I imagine that I hear more than my name – that I hear an echo of the call of my own heart. 

I have said that I dream of the bright sun of my homeland, but it is not only of home that I dream. Some nights I have dreams which would delight the poets: visions of fragrant smokes and the rustle of silks, with Robin lying before me, fair and loving. When I sleep I hear him call me to him, a soft smile upon his face and his hands gentle and slow. In dreams we have known each other as lovers for nights uncounted, and every time was as precious as a jewel. But when I wake I find the jewel is false: as great as my joy was in dreams, it is surpassed by the sense of loss I feel upon waking. Then I rise and walk the woods alone, my heart heavy. I pray that, if Allah wills it, one day I shall find the words to tell Robin of my love and, if He is merciful, Robin will love me in return.


	2. By the Wayside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Nasir are both outsiders, in a way.

    I walk beneath the trees, the leaves whispering above my head in the wind, and my heart could break with the love I have for this land. I have always loved this country. As far back as I can remember I loved England. My father told me a thousand times that we were not English; as we rode through villages and the peasants scurried out of our way he would gesture and say “ _they_ are English” so I would understand his point. But I never really saw the difference.  
    Then I came to Sherwood, and I realised that he was, as parents occasionally are, right. I belong to England, heart and soul, but the English don’t always see it that way. I try to change my speech, my mannerisms, but the fact that I wasn’t raised speaking pure Saxon-English comes out in the way I talk, especially in moments of stress. I call out that they should “guard against the archers” when they would say “beware of the bowmen”. It makes no difference in the heat of battle – they’ve been around Normans long enough to know what I’m saying, but _they_ would never speak as I do. Even Marion doesn’t use the words I do, Saxon noblewoman that she is. And for all that I know I belong to England as much as they do, they were here first and cannot help but see me as a stranger.  
    So now, as I often do, I walk through the woods with another stranger: Nasir. The others love me, as I love them, but they cannot help but judge me a little, especially Will. Will, I think, has never once arrested himself when he could have a bit of fun at my expense. It’s all in friendship, but he misses Loxley; they all do. It is only fitting that they should miss him – he was their leader, and they loved him. They care for me too; it’s just that, like the English in England, Loxley was here first.

    Although Nasir has been living in the forest for longer than I have, he is also an outsider. No one says anything when he goes off to pray, bowing east towards his homeland and chanting in his exotic language, so unlike any other I have ever heard, but it marks him as different. But I love his language – it is so like him, in a way. It flows, rising and falling from high, light sounds to those hard consonants that come rough and sudden. It never ceases to move in a constant stream, as fluid as Nasir himself when he fights.  
    We often walk through the woods together, Nasir and I. The woods need to be scoured every now and then for brigands who would shelter there, taking advantage of sheriff’s reluctance to send soldiers into Sherwood. They pose a threat to us, however, and to the good people of the surrounding villages and hamlets. The shire wood consists of some 100,000 acres by popular reckoning, which might make finding robbers seem a daunting task. But, they tend to keep close to the North Road as we do, that being the best place for robbery, which makes finding them easier. So Nasir, our best tracker, and I, the best shot, search the woods every month or so, driving out those we can or killing if we must. It gives us both a chance to get away from the rest of the group. It has become a time when we both can be ourselves, thank Herne and God. I can speak more freely and, knowing how hard it can be to speak in a manner strange to my natural penchant, I try to make Nasir speak more of his curling, twisting language.

_“Li-dau'i barqin zaliltu mukta’ibā_  
 _Saqqa sanāhū fī l-gauwi wa-ltahabā_  
 _Yūmidu fī dāhiki n-nawāgidi…”_

  
    “That’s beautiful, Nasir,” I said truthfully, ducking under a low-hanging branch.  
    Though I’m sure none of the others would ever have guessed it, he has memorised more lines of verse than Homer, not to mention the entire Muslim holy book, which they call Al-Korahn. It is my particular pleasure to entreat him to recite these verses, and in truth, I think he enjoys a chance to show off.  
    “Thank you, Robin,” he said, smiling at me as we walked side-by-side along the main route through Sherwood (or “road”, as my friends would call it).  
    “But what does it mean?” I prompted, waving a cloud of insects from my face.  
    “It does it a disservice to translate,” he replied in a dissatisfied tone, “but I think it would be something like:

_‘I felt grief upon the gleam of lightning whose brilliance made_  
 _A rent in the air and burst into flame_  
 _Flashing in the form_  
 _Of teeth in laughter…’”_

  
    “And to think that I once thought of writing poems myself,” I muttered, amused.  
    “No, Robin, do not belittle yourself. Abū-Nuwās was a great poet. All I can do is recite his words,” my Saracen friend said cheerfully.  
    “Abu-Nuwas?” I repeated the foreign name, “What was his story, then?”  
    Nasir laughed, the sun shining full on his smiling face as we moved down the open way, “He was a great poet, but an even greater lecher.”  
    I had to laugh, too.  
    “One of those, eh? Couldn’t write unless he had a bevy of fair maidens at his elbows?”  
    “Oh no,” said Nasir, grinning even wider, “he preferred boys.”  
    “Boys?” I repeated, astonished. I had thought the Crusaders invented all those stories!  
    “Beautiful, slender boys,” Nasir confirmed, “he had a poem of his own – a creed – of his desires:  


_  
‘Lay in supplies,_  
 _O tribe that loves boys,_  
 _Of a pleasure that will not be found_  
 _In Paradise,_  
 _For all its vaunted joys’.”_

  
    “He didn’t!” I exclaimed, staring at Nasir, mouth agape.  
    “He did,” my uncharacteristically talkative friend replied.  
    “So is it not a sin among your people?” I asked, utterly fascinated, my mind now filled with exotic visions of licentious Arab palaces.  
    “Of course it is!” he said quickly, then adding: “But how often is that rule not flaunted, both amongst your people and mine?”

    He made a fair point. Especially among monks, men who loved men could be found throughout Europe, though they went about their business secretly, if they had any business at all. As a rule, such men kept their affairs quiet, lest they be marked. And any men who wanted to keep their standing had to at least show an interest in women, even if the interest was and never had been truly there.  
    “You’re right,” I said, shaking my head, amused, “as usual.”  
    He grinned and directed his attention back to the damp, rutted path before us, looking for signs of people coming or going across it into the depths of the forest; a fair sign of people who were living, rather than just passing through the woods.

    We walked in comfortable silence for a while, he studying the trail carefully and I trying to do my part, though I truly wanted to tilt my head back and watch the light filter down through the leaves. But we were on this venture to protect ourselves and the villagers, not to enjoy the scenery. Still, I reflected, few men had the chance to live and work in such a beautiful place as I did.

    “Do you like it here, Nasir?” I asked, suddenly thinking how far he was from home.  
    “I do, Robin,” he said thoughtfully, turning to look at me, “though at times I wish for the land of my birth, you – and all the others – make my home.”  
    A sudden surge of love for the Saracen swelled up in my heart, and I had to embrace him, exclaiming: “It makes my heart glad to hear you say that. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”  
    He responded with an equally strong embrace, saying fervently: “And you, Robin. And you.”

    I leaned back to look at him, puzzled by his words and the emotion I heard behind them. Nasir is rather like a poem himself, at times: he is too subtle and uses too few words for his meaning to always be clear.  
    “What do you mean by that?” I asked, blinking.  
    “Well, I think you sometimes feel as much a Muslim among Christians as I do, Robin of Huntingdon. But I wish you to know that I, at least, would rather have you as leader than any other man, dead or alive.”  
I swallowed, surprised by the honesty of his words and touched by their sincerity. It is true that I sometimes fear that my friends wish they could have Loxley back, instead of me. As I have said, Loxley was one of them, and I may never be, though Herne chose me of all the men in England to be His son.  
    “Thank you, Nasir,” I said solemnly, grateful beyond expression, “I cannot tell you what it means to me.”  
    “Nor I, Robin,” he replied softly, a strange look in his eyes. Then he turned to look down the trail before us, “But let us continue in our search before the afternoon passes.”

I wanted to ask him the meaning of his words, which had roused some thoughts in my mind that I was not accustomed to bringing out in the light of day, but he seemed so intent on continuing that I judged he didn’t want to say any more.

    Night always brings out strange thoughts. Sometimes, before slipping off into sleep, they creep up in one’s mind, offering pictures of things that might have been and might be still. Some of these could never happen unless God Himself reordered the world with His hand. But others seem so close, the possibility always there, day after day, month after month; unspoken and untested, but still _there_.  
    Perhaps some ulterior design of my night-time thoughts works its will in me through these walks. Nasir is the best tracker – none could argue that point with me. And I am the best archer, but it is not required that we two always go together, nor even that an archer should come with him. I could just as easily send Will or Little John, who are both skilled fighters.  
    But I want his company. I like to hear his voice. I enjoy listening to him relax and freely speak the tongue of his childhood, even as I do the same. I love to hear him recite the poetry. I am in awe of his land, which seems so rich and complex compared to this small island. And God’s blood, but it makes me glad to know that he would not trade me in for Robin of Loxley. The others might have their biases, but if Nasir would choose Loxley over me it could only mean that I was a poorer leader than my predecessor was.  
 _  
Is that an excuse, though?_ I wondered, sneaking a look at Nasir: his long-lashed eyes directed down at the forest trail, _Is that the only reason?_  
    It seemed that, whatever thoughts of mine were emerging from their usual day-time lairs, I needed to force them back as soon as possible.

    “Ah!” exclaimed Nasir in triumph, swiftly stooping to inspect the tracks, “There. Two sets of footprints – likely men, by the size of their feet. They came up the trail and walked off that way,” he pointed, west, perpendicular to the main route.  
    “Should we follow it, do you think?” I asked, “It could just be two men who needed to answer nature’s call and left their main train.”  
    “It could,” he agreed, “But is it not worth the look?”  
    I conceded that it was, and we struck off towards the west.

    Nasir’s instincts had been right, and the tracks continued off, further and further from the road. He and I walked across a few glades and even a small stream, but Nasir never lost the trail. We had not gone more than a mile or so when the sound of laughter came wafting down the wind to us, and Nasir and I both tensed as we realised we were near our quarry. We exchanged glances and, by unspoken agreement, decided to move nearer to the speakers to discover more.  
    We crept slowly through the woods, our eyes flitting back and forth from the space from which the voices seemed to come and the ground before our feet. After living so long in the forest, we were woodcrafty beyond the scope of any ruffian, so we might disappear quickly if they were to spot us, but I didn’t want to disappear. Not yet. We needed to discover what they were doing in my Father’s realm or what trouble they might have already caused.

    As we came closer, it became apparent that the men we were dealing with had not been in Sherwood very long. If they had been, they would have learned quickly not to make their camp at the bottom of a dell, where the frequent rain would inevitably pool. It was also a poor hideout, tactically speaking – Nasir and I could crawl forward and peer down with a good amount of bracken for cover: they were asking to be ambushed.  
    We looked into the dingle and saw two men, as Nasir had predicted, sitting on fallen logs, laughing and enjoying a skin of wine. They were both armed, and one was tall while the other was short with broad shoulders. The taller one, who might have been as fair-haired as me under all the dirt, passed the wine to the short one, who was brown haired and impressively hairy.

    “Did you hear her, though? All ‘no, no, no, no!’ You’d think it was the only word she knew!”  
    “Stan, use your head,” laughed his companion, “Hear her? God’s blood, I was too busy with those pretty little titties of hers to care what she said. What a handful, eh?”  
    “Oh, you’d better believe it! In more ways than one, Hengest, in more ways than one.”

    My hackles raised as they broke out again into raucous laughter. I had encountered this kind of roaming wolf before, and I knew exactly what they deserved. I looked over at Nasir, who nodded. As I had on many an occasion, I was grateful for the way our thoughts seemed to run parallel to each other. And I was glad Will was not here, for his sake, as much as for ours.

    “What’d you do with the body, by the way? When you were done?”  
    “Oh, I just drug her out behind the pigpen. I figured someone’d find her eventually, just not soon enough to raise hue and cry over it.”  
    “Fucking peasants,” muttered the other.  
    “A good pastime?” said the first speaker in a cheery voice.  
    “Shut up.”

    That was enough. They both deserved to die for their crimes by all the laws of the land, and the swifter it came to them the better the world would be. I gave one final nod to Nasir, and then stood up, glaring down over the edge of the dell.  
    “You’re naught better than animals,” I spat, drawing my sword, “I’ve heard just about enough of your foul talk.” I heard Nasir draw his twin blades behind me, and felt a modicum of pleasure at the fear I saw in their faces.  
    “Who’re you?” yelled the hairy one who, by his voice, I identified as Hengest. He was surprisingly handsome, once you could see his face, but his eyes were cold.  
    “Robin i’the Hood, son of the Earl of Huntingdon, and Nasir Malek Kemal Inal Ibrahim Sham ad-Dualla Wattab ibn-Mahmud.” They gaped at the names, as well they might: mine was impressive by legend, and Nasir’s was simply impressive.  
    “And all I need to know is that you’ve raped an innocent girl,” I added.  
    “Well, she was asking for it!” protested Stan, the blonde one.  
    “How so?” Nasir said coldly, stepping up beside me, his swords balanced in his hands and his eyes narrowed.  
    “Well, she was out in just her shift! Just coming down the path all brazen-like!”  
    “And that’s ‘asking for it’?” I demanded.  
    “She was drunk, too! What kinda girl gets drunk who doesn’t wanna get fucked?” protested Hengest.  
    “You disgust me,” I sneered, “Draw your weapons, if you’re still men at all.”  
    They did so – both wore swords of middling quality, but they held them with ease and familiarity that betrayed them as former soldiers.  
    “Come and get us, then!” shouted Stan, baring his teeth.

    We were only too willing to grant their request. As light as deer on our feet, we slid down the slope of the dale to meet them. I could feel my heart quicken as I squared off with Hengest, who cursed me as we circled each other. On the other side of the dingle, I could see Nasir and the tall rogue mirroring us, each eyeing the other while treading carefully over the damp leaves of the forest floor.

    Then Hengest dropped his guard a bit to step over a fallen log, and I jumped in to strike. In the flash of a moment, I knew I’d been duped – he was surely too experienced to let such a simple thing distract him. What with the confident way he held his sword, I should have known better. It was only just in the nick of time that I dodged his blow, leaping sideways. But as I did, I twisted my ankle awkwardly on the same damned log that I had thought to be Hengest’s downfall. A jolt of pain shot up my right leg, making me hiss with the pain, but I couldn’t let that bother me now. Things had just shifted dangerously in Hengest’s favour.  
    “Not so high and righteous now, are we Robin i’the Hood?” he grinned, moving the point of his sword in a slow circle as he advanced on me.  
    I decided that two could play the deception game. It was a long shot, but I didn’t know how much I could trust my God-cursed ankle. I played up my hurt like the best actor in the world, limping like I was trying not to limp and putting on a brave grimace. Hengest’s grin widened.  
    “Oh, did the pretty boy hurt himself? Here… let me look at it,” he said maliciously, coming closer. I shifted my weight, doing my best to look even more nervous than I felt already. Emboldened, he came at me high from my left, trying to drive me to put my weight on my weakened right leg. As fast as I could, I ducked and struck under his outstretched arm, even as his sword whistled past me.

    With a gurgling cry, Hengest dropped his sword and crumpled to the ground. Albion had put a deep rend into his side, and his insides were mixed with the blood that pooled and flowed from the gaping wound.  
    _Such is the life of a fighter_ , I thought, lifting my sword and striking a final, well-aimed blow to put the beast out of his misery.  
    “May God give you what mercy you deserve,” I muttered, cleaning the blood from my blade on his garments.  
    I looked up to see Nasir coming towards me, his own swords already cleaned and sheathed. I hobbled over to him, embarrassed at my less than knightly-wound. His dark brows furrowed in concern as he saw me favouring my left leg.

    “You hurt yourself,” he said, almost chiding.  
    “You could at least do me the honour of making it sound like _he_ did this to me,” I grumbled, irritably brushing my hair out of my face.  
    “Sit down and let me look at it,” he said, ignoring my previous remark and stepping closer, looking anxiously down at my right leg.  
    “I’m sure it’ll be fine ‘til we get back to camp,” I said, waving him off, a little flustered to be the object of such attention from him.  
    “Are you sure?” he asked, his brown eyes boring into mine.  
    “I’m sure. And don’t look at me like that!” I added, laughing to see the almost comical look of worry on his face.  
    “As you say, Robin,” Nasir shrugged, “But at least let me give you my shoulder to lean upon as we go.”

    I conceded to make him my prop, my pride somewhat bruised, but before we had gone ten steps together I was glad he’d made the offer. I’d certainly had worse injuries, but the uneven terrain of the woodland made going frustratingly slow. I leaned on Nasir as I went, my arm on his shoulder and his on mine. After some while, I realised that, though we had already walked for nigh on half an hour, we had yet to reach the road. It was torture, and not just because of my ankle.  
    With every step I could catch a whiff of that scent of him that was _him_ and no one else. It wasn’t that he smelled bad, just ever so slightly different. Better, for one thing. By our standards, Nasir had something of a mania for bathing. He might jump in the river as often as once a week. And, to our eternal bafflement, he usually washed his hands, feet, and face before his five daily prayers. It was just another of Nasir’s peculiarities, and I loved him for it.

    Ah, now those thoughts were coming out of their hiding places again. I wasn’t just noticing that soft smell that was Nasir, now. I was discerning the shift of the muscles in his back every time he took my weight as I leaned on him. I was feeling the heat from his body through his leather cuirass. My eyes were hypnotised by the dappled light that caught in his hair as we walked. I was lost in my sensory reverie when Nasir turned his head inquiringly, noticing that I was staring at him.  
    “What is it?” he asked, the emotion in his voice neutral.  
    “Oh, nothing. I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere,” I babbled quickly, blushing and paying sudden strict attention to the ground before me.  
    _God, Robin,_ I berated myself, _Get a hold of yourself, man! What’s going on in that head of yours?_

    Unfortunately, I knew exactly what was going on, and it wasn’t all happening in my head. Iesu Maria, but I’d _noticed_ Nasir since that fateful day at Own of Clun’s castle. He had a sneaky way of moving into my consciousness as no-one else could. He might be quiet, but he could never be invisible to me. I might be sitting at the campfire, chatting with Tuck or Marion or any one of the group, but if Nasir walked into the camp I would know it. He could absorb my whole attention so my head was filled with the way his eyes moved or the motion of his hands and the timbre of his voice.  
    It was madness. If it hadn’t driven me mad yet, it would eventually. I loved Marion. Or I thought I did.  
    _What a mess – and you’re supposed to be their leader!_

    I had loved Marion when I saw her in my father’s hall. She was beautiful and sad, like a woman from a love song. And I had saved her, like all the heroes in the love songs must. But though I felt protective of her, she was not some demoiselle in distress – Marion could look after herself. Perhaps I loved her romantically in the beginning, but now it was complicated. Nasir had complicated things.  
 _And now you blame him, of all people! Do you have no shame? What has he ever done but be absolutely, heart-breakingly perfect?_

    I sighed miserably and tried to drive my thoughts back into the dark of my mind whence they had crept. I scrabbled desperately for a distraction.  
    “So tell me Nasir, since we’re so very close – ” I earned a raised eyebrow for my poor pun “ – whatever happened to those girls you fancied?”  
    He looked at me as if I was insane.  
    “Tuck told me about them. You know, the ones from the Time of the Blessing,” I prompted, fervently hoping for some discouraging news about Nasir and the girls.  
    “Ah, them,” he said slowly, helping me over a log that barred our path, “Well, it was the Blessing. There were a few nights together, but that was all.”  
    “Really? Did you have a girl back home, then?”  
    “No, I’ve no-one back home. Everything I need is here in England, now” he said softly.  
 _No, no Nasir. Please just tell me how easily you get women. And on and on about how many you’ve had. This is just going to let those thoughts out again…_

    As if the forest itself pitied me and wanted to provide a distraction for my mind, we arrived at last at the North Road.  
    “Dear Lord, has it really taken us this long just to return here?” I asked, looking miserably upon the long line of the road.  
    “It’s going to be a long walk back to camp,” Nasir admitted as we stepped out onto the road, “And the sun’s westering already.”

    I peered up through the canopy of leaves and saw that it was so: the sun was already dropping from its noonday height.  
    “I’m sorry, Nasir,” I sighed, “I still can’t believe I was so – ”  
    “Shhh!”

Then I heard it, too: the sound of fast-approaching hoof beats and the jingle of harnesses. My heart sank like a stone; two men on foot against at least three horsemen were poor odds on any day, but with me hobbling like an old beggar we had no hope whatsoever.  
“Come on!” Nasir said urgently.

    We scampered to the other side of the way, hearts pounding as the sounds of the riders came closer. There was no proper ground cover at this stretch of the road, but there was a great oak opposite us. As the horses came ever closer Nasir jumped behind the tree and pulled me tight against him at the last moment.  
    I had grievously misjudged the number of riders: I had guessed perhaps five, but their true number was close to fifteen. From the heavy sounds of metal I heard as they passed, I knew that they were armoured in mail, and thus probably armed. As they rode past, Nasir pressed me ever closer against him until I could feel his heartbeats in my chest as much as my own and the hoof beats of the horses.  
    When the last horseman passed, we were both breathing hard. It had been a near thing and might have been disastrous, but my mind was stupidly focused on the heat of Nasir’s breast against my own and the rhythm of his breaths. I shut my eyes, biting my lip and willing him either to let me go at once or to never _ever_ stop holding me tight against him.  
    As if of their own accord, my traitorous hands raised themselves up and pressed against his back, though I scraped them against the rough bark of the tree. He tensed and shifted as my fingers explored the small of his back. I froze, squeezing my eyes tightly-shut as if to block out any sight of reality. With all my heart I willed him not to move.  
    _No, please! This is too perfect._  
    I had let things spin out of control, somehow, when I should have been strong. I was his leader, but now I’d turned a simple situation into a complete mess. I couldn’t believe my own idiocy. But now all I could do was hope that we’d never move again and I’d never have to see the look on his face.  
    _What must he be thinking now? Oh Christ, you_ fool _, Robert!_

    He moved then, releasing me from his embrace and I steeled myself for the inevitable I-knew-not-what look he might give me: disgust? pity? I could not imagine which would be worse and wished that I could be anywhere on God’s earth than where I was at that moment.  
    Then he nudged my head up with his hand and kissed me.

    I was sure I was mad, then. This was all an elaborate hallucination. Perhaps Hengest had stuck me on the head with the flat of his sword, addling my head. But so what if I was mad? This was a beautiful madness. There were Nasir’s hands in my hair and on my shoulders, and there were my own on his strong back, and there was the scratch of his beard against my cheek and lips. And he was kissing me as though he had been hungering to kiss me ever since he first knew me, though in reality it was obviously the other way around.  
    “Robin, I thought…” he was breathing hard, resting his brow against mine.  
    “No, no,” I said, not sure what I was denying and not caring.  
    I pressed my lips against his again and I was lost in him: lost in his mouth and the curls on his head and his breath.  
    “Oh, Robin,” he gasped when we finally broke apart.

    It was slowly dawning on me now that this was all distressingly real. I wasn’t mad: this was truly happening, and it scared me. I was trained to be brave, and I was Robin Hood – I wasn’t supposed to be scared, but I my heart was fluttering in my breast like a caged bird.  
    “This is actually happening?” I asked him shakily.  
    “I might ask you the same thing,” he said in a nervous voice, though he was smiling.  
    “Nasir, I can’t _believe_ this,” I said “All those times I thought I was – ”  
    “ – just imagining it?” he was shaking his head disbelievingly, “I can’t believe it either.”  
    “I can’t believe we didn’t say anything,” I whispered, though we both knew that was a lie. We knew all too well why neither of us had said a word about this to each other: the risks were too great.  
    _“Allah hu akhbar,”_ he said reverentially, running one hand down the side of my face.  
    “What does that mean?”  
    “God is great,” he said gently, kissing my forehead.

    He smiled so beautifully then that I thought my heart would escape from its cage; there was such peace and happiness in that smile. If nothing else, I had to kiss his mouth again, just to try and taste such sublime contentment.  
    We stood there, our arms around each other and our hearts finally laid bare, kissing by the great North Road.

    At last, I spoke the words that I knew I had to say, much as I loathed to: “Nasir, we need to get back to camp.”  
    A quiet look of unhappiness on his face, he nodded.  
    “Yes. Back to the camp.”  
    “You know I’d prefer to stay here forever?” I rested my head against his, savouring every point of contact.  
    “As would I,” he whispered back to me. I smiled.  
    “I think I love you, Nasir Malek Kemal Inal Ibra –” he grinned, amused, and pressed his finger against my lips to stop me.  
    “I love you, Robert of Huntingdon,” he replied, his dark eyes shining.

    I had been at the lowest depth of despair before, but now my heart was soaring higher than I could have ever believed possible.  
    “Come,” he said stepping beside me and placing my arm upon his shoulder, “Let us go then.”  
    I kissed his cheek, and we turned towards home.

    Though the way up to the North Road had seemed to take hours, we soon found ourselves nearly halfway back to camp in what felt like a quarter of an hour. Nasir and I laughed and flirted, trading kisses back and forth. We shared stories about times we had thought that the other cared and then took it in turn to exclaim: “You thought that then? But I was thinking that then!”

    In a pause in our conversation I spoke up.  
    “Nasir?”  
    “Yes?”  
    “May I share a poem with you?”  
    “Do you mean to tell me that you have had poems stored in that fair, wonderful head of yours all this time? And there I was, having to rack my brain to translate Abū-Nuwās and Hafiz?”  
    “Well, it’s not really a poem. It’s a song, but I’m no great singer,” I said sheepishly, feeling uncultured compared to this learned Saracen whom I loved so dearly.  
    “It is no matter, best beloved. Let me hear it.”

    I smiled happily at him, looked up at the golden light that was filling the woods as the sun sank ever-lower, and began to recite:

_“Car tant vous aim, sans mentir  
Qu'on poroit avant tarir  
La haute mer  
Et ses ondes retenir  
Que me peusse alentir  
de vous amer.  
Sans fausser; car mi penser,  
Mi souvenir, mi plaisir  
Et mi desir sont sans finer  
En vous que ne puis guerpir  
N’entroublier.”_

  
    “That was French?”  
    “Yes, here it is rendered into English:

_‘For I love you so much, truly,  
That one could sooner dry up  
The deep sea  
And hold back its waves  
Than I could keep myself  
from loving you,  
Without falsehood; for my thoughts  
My memories, my pleasures  
And my desires are perpetually  
Of you, whom I cannot leave  
Or even briefly forget.’”_


End file.
